“Mum, how come Billy gets to take credit for my writing?!” I whined.

“Because your father said so, dear. That’s the only reason you need.” Mum said without looking up from her sewing.

“But Mum! He’s just a stupid actor!”

“Honey, just drop it.” she said.

“He can’t even write his own name! And he lacks the emotional maturity to even begin to describe something beautiful!” I yelled.

“Dear, do you want to be burned at the stake? Because that’s what would happen if people knew you wrote those stories.” she said calmly and quietly.

“No, I don’t want to be burned.” I said, defeated and dejected.

“Good. Now tell me about your new story.”

“Oh, this one’s brilliant! It’s about a girl and a boy who fall in love. The only problem is that their families are at war with each other. I’m going to call it Romulo and Julianne.” I said.

“That does sound wonderful, dear. But I think you should call it Romeo and Juliet. It sounds smoother.” she said.

“Huh, it does. Thanks, Mum.”

“No problem, dear.”